Sherlock Holmes: The American Years (24 page)

“You can always get another dog,” he suggested hopefully.

“I don’t
want
another dog!” she wailed. “I want my Princey!”

Poor Nate looked miserable, as if he was about to cry himself, and I decided to save him by calling everyone back to rehearsal. It would have been nice to take the rest of the day off, but we were scheduled to open in a week.

Kitty struggled bravely through rehearsal, but it was clear that the death of her beloved Prince had devastated her. The shock of grief was stamped on her face—her lower lip trembled during the queen’s speech about Ophelia’s death, and she shed real tears during my death scene at the end of the play. If she were only able to summon up such real emotion consistently onstage, she might have been a principal player instead of a lady-in-waiting.

Finally rehearsal was over, and I was waiting in the lobby for Holmes to join me when I saw Joseph Jefferson hurrying toward me. I had known Joe since my days in California. He had agreed to play the small but key role of the First Gravedigger in our production. It was a role he had played many times before, and he was always an audience favorite. The repartee between Hamlet and the First Gravedigger is some of Shakespeare’s wittiest; one mark of his genius is his ability to relieve the mounting tension of the tragedy with this brief comic scene.

“I say, wait up for a moment!” Jefferson panted, running after me on spindly, storklike legs. A long black greatcoat hung off his lean, slightly bowed back, and with his coarse black hair and piercing dark eyes, he reminded me of a bird of prey—a crow, perhaps, or a raven.

“Edmund, my boy,” he said, catching up with me, “I have something for you.” It was one of his little jokes to call me Edmund, which was the name of the evil bastard son in King Lear.

He fished a slip of paper from his pocket and thrust it at me. “Geoff Simmons gave this to me to give to you.”

“Very well—thank you, Joseph,” I replied, putting the note in my pocket.

“Don’t mention it.” He began to leave, then turned back to me, his black eyebrows furrowed. “I say, old man, is everything all right?”

“Yes, perfectly—why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason, I suppose . . . it’s just that you look a bit—well, forgive me, but distracted, I suppose.” He leaned closer to me, and I could see the yellow in his eyes. “I say, it’s not your wife, is it? Taken a turn for the worse, has she?”

It was Joe Jefferson who had first introduced me to Mary Devlin, my beloved first wife, and I always thought he found my current wife a poor substitute.

“No, no—she’s much the same,” I answered.

“Poor thing,” he clucked, his eyes crinkling sympathetically. “Madness runs in that family,” he added, with a conspiratorial nod.

“Yes, well, I must be off,” I said, buttoning my coat.

“Do take care, won’t you?” he said earnestly.

“Yes,” I replied, thinking his comment somewhat odd.

“Right, then, old man—see you tomorrow.”

With that he loped off into the night, his greatcoat flapping around his ankles like the wings of a giant black bird.

As I stood watching him, I was suddenly aware that someone was behind me. I turned to see Holmes standing there silently, arms folded, looking after Jefferson.

“Curious man,” he said when I turned around.

“How do you mean?” I was both fascinated and irritated with Holmes’s ability to pluck observations out of thin air. “What do you know of him?”

“Oh, nothing much,” he answered airily, “other than he owns a Springer spaniel of advanced years, is overly fond of coffee, and is quite the amateur gardener. He is keen on roses in particular, I should think.”

I stared at him.

“Really, Holmes, how on earth—?”

“Do not distress yourself, my dear Booth,” he replied. “That he owns a dog is evident from the short, curly hairs clinging to his trousers. That it is a medium-sized dog is evident from the fact that the hairs are found only as far up as his knees. As the hairs are both black and gray and curly, the most obvious choice would be a spaniel, probably a Springer, which is a very popular breed just now.”

“But the age of the dog—”

He smiled. “There I confess I was surmising. A man his age does not get a young dog—in fact, if he has a dog at all, it is likely to be as advanced in years as he is. That and a preponderance of the gray hairs led to my conclusion.”

“And the rest of your conclusions? The coffee drinking, for example?”

“My dear Booth, one of the first things I noticed was the color of his teeth—and few things except tobacco can stain the teeth quite that shade of gray. However, as he has not a whiff of smoke about his clothing or his person, I discounted that conclusion and surmised that he is overly fond of coffee.”

“And the gardening?”

“Again, simple observation. He is impeccably groomed, and yet his fingernails are ragged and somewhat dirty. That and the ruddy glow of his cheeks leads me to believe he spends time among his flowers—and the scratches on his hands lead me to the conclusion that he is particularly fond of roses, which, as poets have oft noted, are not without their thorns. Are you satisfied now?”

“Oh, very well!” I said. I’m afraid I sounded a bit exasperated, which was not my intent, but I couldn’t help myself. “I’m satisfied, but you have to admit it’s a bit . . . well, irritating.”

He smiled. “Perhaps. But just as a man who wishes to improve his bodily strength must do his exercises, so I must exercise my brain. May I ask what you were conversing about just now?”

“He had a note to give me from Geoff Simmons.”

“Oh? May I inquire what was in it?”

“I haven’t read it yet,” I said, fishing it out of my pocket. I glanced at it quickly—it was written on the back of one of our programs for
Hamlet
. I handed it to Holmes, who read it aloud.

“ ‘My dear Edwin, would you kindly meet me tomorrow after rehearsal in the grill room of the Players? I may have something of import to tell you. Geoff Simmons.’ ”

“What do you make of it?” I asked.

“It’s very curious,” he murmured, handing it back to me. “Observe the wording: I
may
have something of import to tell
you—it suggests that he does not yet know whether he will or not.”

“Yes, I noticed that.”

“Furthermore, it is written hurriedly, on the back of a program—almost as though he did not plan to write it, but suddenly had the need, and grabbed whatever was to hand at the time.”

“Yes, I see what you mean.”

“Also, why not request a meeting with you tonight instead of tomorrow?”

“Presumably because of his appointment.”

“Indeed. The whole thing is very mysterious, and I don’t like it.”

We left the theatre, heading northeast toward the Players, starting up Fifth Avenue, then winding east through side streets, past stalls of booksellers and greengrocers. We walked for a while in silence, breathing in the early spring air; the cold snap of the previous week had lifted, and the air was suddenly heavy with the smell of cherry blossoms. We wandered uptown through the gaily decorated theatre district as carriages careened past us, bouncing briskly down Broadway.

It was late when we arrived at the Players, and the grill room was about to close. However, an exception was made for me. We ordered lamb chops and roast potatoes, and though I normally am very fond of lamb, I didn’t have much appetite. I was silent all throughout dinner, and only when Hector brought us our coffee and brandy in front of the fire did I finally give voice to the thoughts I had been nursing all night.

“Do you believe in fate, Mr. Holmes?”

“It depends upon what you mean by fate.”

“Do you have a brother?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And what is he like?”

“Completely unlike me in certain ways, but in others very much like me indeed.”

“How so?”

A faint smile flickered across his thin lips.

“We are both of an intellectual turn of mind . . . in fact, his intellect is probably superior to mine.”

“Really? He must be quite impressive. And how are you different?”

Holmes’s dark eyes searched my face for a moment, then he lowered them and shook his head.

“Except for a certain . . . aversion to our fellow man, our temperaments could not be more distinct. Whereas I am all nervous energy, kinetic and restless, my brother is a sloth of a man. You may perhaps have remarked upon my rather pronounced leanness.”

It was my turn to smile. “That would be difficult not to notice.”

“Well, my brother is my exact physical opposite. If you saw the two of us together you would not believe we were related—except perhaps for a certain resemblance around the eyes. I am convinced that nothing would please him more than to live the rest of his life seated in his armchair at his club, moving only to turn the pages of a newspaper or order another brandy.”

I nodded. “Yes, it is quite astonishing how far apples can fall from the same tree.”

Holmes nodded but did not reply. A silence fell between us, heavy with the unasked question.

“And your brother, Mr. Booth?” Holmes said at last, his voice gentle.

“My brother,” I began slowly, as if by delaying the words I could somehow delay the thought of those terrible days, “my brother John was very like me in some ways—and completely different in others.”

“He was a gifted actor, I hear.”

“Oh, yes—and handsome too. All the ladies were in love with him.”

“It is hard to imagine one whom Nature has provided with so much being driven to such desperate extremes,” Holmes replied, then his voice softened. “This must be difficult for you. My apologies if you feel I am prying into matters you would rather not discuss.”

I shook my head and lit a cigar. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Holmes, but my sister Asia insists it does me good to talk about it.”

“Perhaps,” Holmes murmured. “There are more things in heaven and earth . . .”

“My poor brother bore within him a darkness—a hunger, if you will—that was never completely satisfied by what other men would have deemed profuse blessings. Youth, talent, beauty of form and face, a family name of honor and renown . . . all of these gifts were bestowed upon young Johnny, and yet he was possessed of a dissatisfaction with life the rest of us could never understand. He identified always with the South, even though everyone else in our family considered ourselves Northerners. None of us fought in the war, but Johnny seemed determined to rail against the North whenever the chance arose. Then, when victory came to the Union
forces, he seemed to come apart in some way. But upon my soul, Mr. Holmes, I will never to this day understand what evil force propelled him into such a desperate and despicable act!”

“Can you not, Mr. Booth?” he replied softly. “You yourself have been considered the preeminent actor in this country for most of your career, the sole inheritor of your father’s mantle of greatness.”

“Perhaps, but Johnny was—”

“Your younger brother, never destined to reach your heights—or so he must have believed.”

“But he had fame, and the adoration of women wherever he went.”

“But
you
had the respect and adulation of your peers, the press, and everyone who truly mattered in his eyes. I believe your brother realized he would never be the great tragedian that you are—and having come of age in your shadow, he craved attention more than virtue or honor.”

I laughed—a short, bitter exhalation of air. “I find it ironic that you say this, because I swear to you I would exchange all of my renown for a return to the simple pleasures of married life once again. To sit by the fire with my dear Mary once again! That, to me, is real bliss—not dashing madly about from town to town, sleeping in a different bed night after night, eating indifferent food in dull company. To be an actor, Mr. Holmes, is to feel that one’s life is never truly one’s own.”

“Perhaps it is the human condition to be in a state of continual longing—to yearn for what we cannot have.”

“Perhaps.”

We talked on into the night. I lost track of time, until I became
aware of the slow, steady clip-clop of the milk horse as it plodded down the cobblestone street, and realized that we had stayed up all night.

I yawned, feeling suddenly how tired I was. My weary body cried out for sweet sleep; I longed to sink into blissful oblivion.

“I hope you don’t mind if I leave to retire for the night,” I said, “or rather, to sleep away the rest of the morning.”

“Not at all,” Holmes replied. “By all means—you must get your rest.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

I turned and went up the stairs, but could not resist a glance back as I did. My last glimpse was of him sitting, shrouded in pipe smoke, peering into the half light of the coming dawn, as if the rising sun itself held the answer to the secrets plaguing us both.

I fell into my bed, but still I could not sleep. I tossed and thrashed about for over an hour, and finally, when sleep did come, I drifted in and out of heavy dreams, in which my brother John always seemed to be lurking in the background.

I awoke to a terrific clap of thunder. Shortly afterward, the skies opened up and the rain pelted down with a sharp, percussive sound, like handfuls of pebbles being tossed at the window panes. I watched as the drops hit the glass; defeated in their attack and drained of their energy, they slid harmlessly down the windows. If only my assailant were so easy to overcome—if only I could put up an invisible barrier between us! A deep strain of melancholy threaded through the Booth family like an evil, creeping vine—perhaps it was the price we had to pay for the genius bestowed
upon us. As I gazed out at the furious storm, I couldn’t help but think of my poor brother. In him the melancholy grew, rampant and untended, into a madness that burst forth in terrible fullness on that fateful night at Ford’s Theatre.